Chapter Fifteen
I met with Rivka and her parents two days later, and the three of them were absolutely delightful.
Rivka works at a Jewish women’s modest clothing store, and in her spare time, she volunteers at the children’s ward in NYU Hospital, reading and playing with patients.
She isn’t a fan of football, but I told her to save that piece of information until the marriage contract is signed.
The good news is that the family read the magazine article featuring Caleb when it first came out, and all three of them unilaterally decided that age is just a number when someone like Caleb Kahn comes along.
All I need to do now is to get a yes from Caleb.
Which is proving a lot easier said than done.
I don’t know what’s going on in that head of his, but I’m starting to get mad.
Yesterday, he texted that he’d have to miss tomorrow’s run due to an early meeting, but I don’t buy it.
Over the last sixteen hours, I have left him two voicemails and several texts.
I swear, if he isn’t lying dead in a ditch somewhere, I’m going to kill him.
I just have to find him first.
Fortunately, he and Zevi share their locations with each other, so Zevi was able to be my secret spy informant.
Unfortunately, he’s at Johnnie’s, a small and unassuming boxing club in the Bronx that’s supposedly trained some of the best boxers in the history of the sport.
I’ve only ventured there once before when Zevi was interested in joining a couple of years ago, and lasted all of five minutes.
There was just too much testosterone and tension and blood and spit.
But, as I head toward the subway station, I reason what’s a little body fluid when you’re a matchmaker on a mission?
Twenty minutes later, I’m pushing open the glass door, causing the attached bell to jangle.
“Hello,” I say, approaching the decrepit old white man behind the desk.
“You must be Johnnie.” I only remember this because Zevi had mentioned that the son of the original Johnnie is also named Johnnie, as well as his son and grandson. So the odds are definitely in my favor.
Johnnie, however, doesn’t even glance up. Two hearing aids peek out between tufts of white hair and I consider reaching over the desk to try to adjust the volume since they’re obviously not working, but on the flip side, he could get a heart attack from the shock. Better not to.
“HI!” I shout, which probably isn’t much better, but he seems used to it, and calmly blinks. “CAN I GO TO THE RING?” I wait for him to respond or wheeze or something, but nada. If his chest wasn’t moving, I’d doubt he was alive. “HAVE A GREAT DAY!”
I open the door that leads down a hallway and wrinkle my nose.
The scent of testosterone, sweat, and bad attitude fills the air.
Boxers are a unique breed of people, in my opinion.
They’re disciplined, hard-working, competitive, and probably missing some crucial part of the brain.
Why else would someone intentionally put themselves in a position to get pummeled? It makes no sense.
“Hey, sweetheart,” a guy in his forties says, holding a gym bag over his shoulder. “Who you looking for?”
“Caleb Kahn.”
“He’s in the ring. Second door on the left.”
“Thanks.”
“You be careful now,” he calls over his shoulder. “That man’s been spoiling for a fight.”
I pause. On second thought, maybe I should visit him some other time.
Come on, Ashira. Don’t be a baby. He’s not going to hurt you.
I open the door and take in the scene. It’s like a caveman convention where men across all demographics gather to showcase their grunting noises.
Everyone is sweating and panting as they lift barbells or jump rope or run on treadmills, and they all have really hairy armpits.
There isn’t a woman in sight, and it makes me wonder whether this is some exclusive boys club that requires a certain percentage of testosterone to join.
The ring is in the center of the room and I gingerly make my way over, careful to avoid getting hit by one of the many punching bags hanging from the ceiling.
Glancing up, I notice that Caleb and his sparring partner are shirtless.
Which is . . . not a big deal. There’s absolutely no reason for my heart to be galloping right now.
After all, I’ve seen Caleb’s naked chest a thousand times before, back in those lazy summer days when we’d hang out at the Kahns’ backyard pool.
From the age of five until I reached thirteen, I’d seen Caleb in swim trunks more times than I could count.
It might be slightly awkward, but he’s left me no choice.
What else am I supposed to do? I don’t have the luxury to sit patiently and wait for him to call me back.
I’ll just keep my eyes on his face and get him to commit to a date as quickly as possible.
I can be in and out of here in thirty seconds, as long as he cooperates.
I step over someone’s gym bag and approach the ring. “Hi, Caleb!” I call out.
He turns around in surprise. “W-what are you— Oomph,” he says, right as his partner’s fist connects with his face.
My hands fly to my own face and I wince.
That looked really painful. But he gets his vengeance a moment later by landing an uppercut to his opponent’s jaw, and that’s when my eyes accidentally drift to his chest and stomach.
I have to remind myself to breathe. Holy mother of—
“What are you doing here?” Caleb spits out his mouth guard and spares me a quick glance.
“Uhm.” I swallow, guiltily turning away. His body is simply . . . I mean, I can’t even . . .
“Ashira?” he prompts, ducking out of the way of his opponent’s glove.
“Sorry,” I say, my eyes straying back to his chest, feeling like the worst sort of pervert. But I’m struggling to understand why Caleb wears shirts. If I were a man and had his chest, I’d walk everywhere topless. And I do mean everywhere. Business meetings, running errands, going to shul.
My eyes dip lower and I suddenly realize that it’s not just his chest that’s awesome. It’s his butt and legs too.
“Are you okay?” Caleb asks, dancing on his feet while keeping his eyes on his opponent.
Am I okay? No, I’m not okay! I was already having wet dreams about this man, and that was before I saw him in all his topless glory.
Now that I’ve seen the magnificence that is Caleb’s body, I can never unsee it.
I always knew Caleb had an amazing body in the same abstract way I know that the Scottish Highlands are beautiful from watching Outlander, but it’s completely different seeing it in person.
“I didn’t know you had tattoos.” The words slip out of my mouth like an HR nightmare, causing me to blush bright red because now he knows that I’m a peeping Tom.
“You never asked,” Caleb grunts, blocking a hit.
Secretly, I’ve always thought men with tattoos are sexy even though it goes against the Torah.
I don’t know why it’s so hot; maybe I’ve been programmed to think that inked guys are tougher, or at least, have a rough exterior, but their insides are soft and sweet, and just waiting for a good woman to come along and nurture them.
At least, that’s how they come across in books and television.
I wish he’d stay still for two seconds so I could read the passage inked on his skin. I can make out a trident, an American flag, the Star of David. And is that a skeletal frog?
“Is there a backstory for the creepy frog?” I ask, but he must not hear me because he doesn’t answer.
I give up all pretense of being a good person and lean in for a closer look. His chest is like a bronze sculpture come to life, all muscles and ridges and flawless golden-brown skin. So many muscles. I sigh.
“Tinsel.”
I blink. Caleb caught me staring again. I swear, someone ought to lock me up, I’m a hazard to myself.
“Sorry, yes.” I clear my throat and avert my eyes. “You haven’t been returning my calls.”
“I’ve been busy,” he says, then swiftly delivers a punch to the guy’s stomach. Ouch.
“Yeah, I see.” I wince. “This is such a violent hobby,” I say, tensing up as the two of them dance around each other.
“Wouldn’t you rather play chess or crochet?
” I peek at them between my fingers, not wanting to see what happens next, yet also wanting to admire Caleb’s body.
It’s hard to say which part of my brain will win out.
His sparring partner laughs and Caleb seizes the opportunity to pummel him. I turn around because oy.
“I’ll call you later,” Caleb calls out to me. “I can’t talk right now.”
Yeah, as if I’m going to fall for that. “I’ll be fast,” I say. “So, I found a girl that I think you’re really going to like—”
Caleb mutters something under his breath that I can’t make out. Except for the F-word. That one came out crystal clear. Maybe he was talking to the guy in the ring.
“She’s in her twenties—” I say. #MatchmakerMath
“Too young,” Caleb cuts in.
Imagine how he’d react if he knew just how young Rivka actually was. Best not to go there. “She’s super sweet,” I continue, ignoring him. “And your type, physically. You know, the complete opposite of me,” I add, and then immediately want to shoot myself. Why did I say that? WHY?!
Apparently, I’m not the only one shocked by my comment because I hear an oomph from Caleb. He was probably caught off guard, and the other guy took advantage of that moment and punched him.
“Anyway,” I say quickly, trying not to think about the violence happening behind me, “does Saturday night work? Seven o’clock? I can make all the arrangements. All you have to do is show up. And talk,” I add.
“How—” a pause, the floor reverberates with thumping, “considerate—of you,” he says, though he doesn’t sound all that grateful.
I jolt as I hear a body crash down onto the mat.
My heart jumps into my throat as I picture Caleb bloody and unconscious.
I spin around, preparing to see him hurt.
Instead, Caleb stands above the man wiping his brow.
I exhale with relief, but then immediately feel bad for the guy. He’s someone’s son after all.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, leaning on the ropes. Someone ought to apologize and I doubt Caleb plans to. “Can I get you anything? Water or . . .” I trail off as I see blood trickle down his nose. “A doctor?”
The man ignores me and spits out his mouth guard. “I hope you shit whatever crawled up your ass,” he says to Caleb.
Oh dear.
“Sorry, man,” Caleb says, holding out his hand. “I didn’t mean to—” Before Caleb can finish his sentence, the guy grabs Caleb’s hand and forces him to the ground where he lands several punches to Caleb’s face.
“Stop that!” I exclaim, ducking under the rope, just as the man hits Caleb square in the eye. “You’re hurting him!”
“Yeah, that’s the point—” the man starts to say, but is cut off when Caleb’s foot kicks him down. Unfortunately, he isn’t the only one that falls.
“What are you doing in here?” Caleb looms over me, looking furious. “You could get hurt.”
“You’re one to talk,” I say, gesturing wildly.
“This is not okay. This is an awful, stupid sport and you’re leaving right now.
” In my peripheral vision, I sense the other guy coming to his feet, and I quickly stand up and step between them.
“Don’t even think about,” I warn the bloody nosed man and hold up my hand, “or I swear to G-d, you won’t live long enough to regret it.
I’ve got mafia connections,” I add, because why not?
The man stares at me for a beat, and my body tenses up, unsure of his reaction.
“Kahn, tell your crazy bimbo bitch to step aside.”
Caleb goes still. “What did you just call her?”
“I called her a crazy-ass bimbo bitch.”
Technically, the ‘ass’ part is new, but details. “You can run your dirty mouth all you want,” I say calmly, “but we’re not going to take the bait.”
“But we will take an apology,” Caleb says in a tight voice.
The guy laughs. “You’re not going to get one.”
“That’s okay,” I say quickly, glancing between the two. “No apology needed. But let’s pause today’s session because emotions are running high and—”
“Bitch, I’m going to fuck you up,” he says and lifts his hand. Just as I process that I’m about to get hit, Caleb punches the guy so hard that he collapses like a deck of cards.
I blink. I think Caleb just saved me from getting a black eye. I turn to him and say, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Caleb replies, keeping his eyes on the man. Based on his scowl, I get the impression that he’d like to punch the guy a lot more.
“Is he going to be okay?” I ask, as the guy groans and rubs his face.
“I hope not,” Caleb replies, tearing off his gloves.
The man’s left eye is starting to swell. Even though he meant to hurt me earlier, I can’t help but feel concern for him now. “Maybe I should go grab him some ice.”
“Why? He was about to take a swing at you,” he adds, as if I didn’t already know that.
“Yes, but—”
“No ‘buts’,” Caleb cuts me off. “There’s never a good excuse for laying a hand on a woman, Ashira.”
I nod. He’s right, of course.
“And you,” he says, ducking under the rope and holding it up for me, “are leaving.”
“But we didn’t finish talking yet,” I say, thinking of Rivka.
“I completely agree.”
“You do?”
He nods, but there’s a scary glint in his eyes. And I get the feeling that whatever it is he wants to talk about, it isn’t his love life.